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THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


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TS 
3175 


THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME  IS  PUBLISHED 

AND 

AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 

TO  THE  AUTHOR 

BV 

HIS  DAUGHTER. 


622983 


PHRENOCOSM. 

READ   AT   THE   ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE   GNOTHAUTII,   KNOX  COLLEGE, 
JUNE  31,  1854. 

WITHIN  a  dell  where  sparkling  in  the  sun, 
From  clear  sweet  fountains,  flashing  waters  run, 
Whose  purling  dimples  seemed  by  Nereids  formed, 
Whose  flowery  banks  the  Nereids'  selves  adorned  ; 
Where  sighing  soft  the  genii  of  the  breeze 
Breathed  their  sweet  cadence  thro'  the  leafy  trees  ; 
Upon  whose  boughs  in  rich  enamelled  hue, 
Hung  the  fair  fruits  which  gods  delight  to  view  ; 
Where  through  the -rustling  boughs  the  wand'ring  eye 
Meets  here  and  there  the  vaulted  azure  sky, 
Mid  fleecy  clouds  where  grouped  in  grandeur  wild, 
Shape  upon  shape  the  fairy  forms  were  piled  ; 
There,  where  the  spirits  of  the  earth  and  sky 
Seem  in  the  rich  embroidery  to  vie, 


PHRENOCOSM. 

Strayed  a  youth,  whose  thoughtful  beaming  face 

Bespoke  a  soul  which  Genius  deigned  to  grace, 

Whose  mind  from  nature  as  a  book  could  learn, 

The  thought-forms,  which  shaped  nature  to  discern. 

And,  as  he  gazed  upon  this  fairy  sight, 

His  senses  wrapped  in  pure  and  calm  delight, 

Chained  by  a  spell  like  wizard  charm  of  yore, 

His  tranquil  musings  thus  in  numbers  pour: 

The  world  without  us,  all  its  forms  how  fair, — 

God's  beauties  blushing  through  the  earth  and  air, — 

The  diamond  glittering  in  its  pearly  bed; 

The  blue-eyed  flower,  scare  raising  its  frail  head; 

The  strong,  resistless,  ever  heaving  tide; 

The  storm-charged  clouds  that  on  the  whirlwinds  ride; 

The  planets  wheeling  through  the  rounds  of  space; 

And  myriad  systems  balanced  each  in  place: 

Or  great  or  small,  alike  their  beauties  show, 

Dew-drops  like  suns  in  mimic  splendor  glow. 

But  could  some  power  propitious  teach  the  art 
To  pour  our  eyesight  on  the  mind  or  heart, 
To  paint  our  thoughts,  or  give  emotions  hue, 


PHRENOCOSM. 

Till  thoughts  and  passions  stand  revealed  to  view, 
Clad  in  a  lustre  that  might  praise  command 
Even  from  bright  seraphs  of  the  spirit  land, 
Compared,  the  world  tho'  fair  in  every  form, 
Would  fade  like  starlight  into  coming  morn. 

When  at  Jehovah's  voice  the  astonished  earth 
From  out  the  dark  abyss  stood  trembling  forth, 
When  chaos  from  the  scene  abashed  withdrew, 
And  over  nothing  her  thick  mantle  threw, 
When  back  the  waters  by  the  land  were  driven, 
And  myriad  stars  lit  up  the  vault  of  heaven, 
And  when  from  dust  a  living  form  arose, 
Omnipotence  did  but  his  power  disclose, 
Which  into  being  spoke  material  forms, 
And  formed  from  naught  whate'er  our  senses  charms. 
Not  so  was  formed  the  ever  living  soul; 
Creation  lost  the  act  that  crowned  the  whole. 
Jehovah  then  from  highest  heaven  descends 
And  o'er  that  lifeless  form  majestic  bends; 
Breathed  in  his  nostrils  then  the  living  flame; 
Touched  with  Promethean  fire  his  lifeless  frame. 


PHRENOCOSM. 

Creation  from  the  hand  of  God  was  given; 
The  mind  is  an  afflatus  BREATHED  from  heaven. 

The  mind  whose  subtle  forms  eye  cannot  see, 
Simple  amid  its  vast  complexity, 
'Tis  as  a  harp  of  thousand  hidden  strings, 
Unknown,  save  by  the  melody  it  brings; 
A  mechanism  perfect  in  each  part, 
Which  into  motion  e'en  a  breath  can  start; 
Bound  to  material  forms,  its  dwelling  place, 
By  hidden  links  not  e'en  itself  can  trace. 
Whence  comes  this  subtle  ever-living  part, 
Which  moves  in  motion,  pulsates  in  the  heart  ? 
Whence  springs  this  quickening  and  immortal  flame 
Transfused  throughout  our  dull  decaying  frame  ? 
Eternal  mystery  its  source  enshrouds, 
Like  that  of  Egypt's  river,  wrapped  in  clouds. 

How  strange  the  union,  strange  the  ties  which  bind 
Essence  and  body,  dust  and  living  mind. 
Go  look  upon  the  bent  and  trembling  form 
Bowed  by  the  blasts  of  four-score  Winters'  storm, 
Of  one,  who,  like  the  giant  of  the  wood, 


PHRENOCOSM. 

Leafless  and  branchless,  many  a  day  hath  stood; 
Whose  faltering  footsteps  totter  o'er  the  grave 
From  which  all  human  power  not  long  can  save; 
Whose  eye  o'er-worn,  with  life's  protracted  gaze 
Can  scarce  distinguish  e'en  the  sun's  bright  rays; 
Whose  palsied  hand  nor  deafened  ear  scarce  brings 
Or  shape  or  sound  from  out  material  things; 
Dimmed  every  sense,  yet  still  undimmed  his  mind, 
His  sight  still  clear,  although  his  eye  is  blind; 
Though  dark  without,  yet  all  ideal  things 
Flit  shadowy  by  on  visionary  wings. 

The  mind  is  as  some  castle,  dim  and  vast, 
Whose  chambers  are  through  countless  portals  passed ~ 
Where,  lodged  within,  each  in  its  proper  cell, 
The  subtle  parts  of  this  vast  system  dwell. 
Could  we  but  enter  where  the  memory  stands 
And  guards  the  thought-forms  treasured  by  its  hands. 
Could  see  the  thousand  hidden  links  that  bind 
Associations  thousand  cords  could  find — 
The  Sybil's  cave,  in  all  its  wonders  dressed, 
No  such  mysterious  beauty  e'er  possessed. 


PHRENOCOSM. 

Yon  aged  sire  that  marks  his  children's  sport, 
How  yields  his  sad  mood  to  each  gay  retort ! 
Waked  by  the  merry  shout,  his  boyhood  stands 
Crowned  with  a  thousand  joys  at  memory's  hands; 
Now  glows  his  face  flushed  with  the  sudden  joy  ; 
Once  more  he  sports,  once  more  himself  a  boy. 

The  exile  wanders  o'er  Siberia's  snows, 
Across  the  barren  heath  alone  he  goes, 
The  bleak  winds  whistle  o'er  that  dreary  waste, 
And  drifting  snow-wreaths  chaplet  his  cold  face, 
And  save  the  snow-pile  and  the  stunted  fern 
No  object  can  his  failing  eye  discern. 
No  object  ?    Yes  !     There  is  !     It  must  be  so. 
A  rude-built  hut  half  buried  'neath  the  snow. 
The  exile  nears  it,  and  with  heartfelt  praise. 
To  Heaven,  he  seeks  his  earnest  thanks  to  raise. 
He  goes  within — that  rude  hut  boasts  no  lock  ; 
No  shutter  bids  the  weary  exile  knock  ; 
But  each  rude  gust  that  o'er  the  mountain  blows, 
Deposits  there  its  freight  of  drifting  snows. 
A  few  burnt  brands,  whose  fires  are  long  since  dead  ; 


PHRENOCOSM. 

A  pile  of  turf  that  forms  a  scanty  bed ; 

The  rude  built  walls  and  snow-bedrifted  sides, 

Are  all  the  comforts  which  that  hut  provides. 

Hope  nerves  the  wandering  exile's  sinking  frame  ; 

He  seeks  to  kindle  there  the  genial  flame, 

And  while  each  nook  for  fuel  now  he  tries, 

A  worn  and  tattered  volume  meets  his  eyes. 

He  takes  it  up.     As  from  its  page  he  reads, 

Nor  toil,  nor  cold,  nor  hunger  now  he  heeds  ; 

Forgotten  now  the  bitter  biting  cold  ; 

Remembered  naught  save  that  his  chill  hands  hold. 

"  Oh,  Poland  !     Tis  thy  name,  my  native  land  ! 

Thy  bleeding  streams  and  battered  walls  here  stand. 

Oh  hallowed  volume !     Ceaseless  be  the  fame 

That  bears  the  glorious  Kosciusko's  name." 

How  calm  the  exile  now.    His  mind,  still  free, 

Visits  his  home  in  pleasing  reverie. 

No  longer  now  an  exile  doomed  to  roam  ; 

Those  rude  built  walls  seem  like  his  childhood's  home; 

Those  wintry  blasts  that  howl  around  his  head 

Are  but  the  mountain  winds  that  round  him  played 

On  Poland's  rough  and  earthquake-riven  face, 


PHRENOCOSM. 

By  memory  clad  in  borrowed  loveliness  ; 

A  halo  such  as  erst  in  childhood  graced 

The  faded  beauty  of  a  mother's  face. 

Association  thrills  her  hidden  strings, 

And  fancy  o'er  the  scene  her  magic  flings. 

Memory  unlocks  her  storied  treasures  now, 

Pleasure  once  more  lights  up  the  exile's  brow; 

He  sees  again  his  father's  manly  form, 

Whose  strength  has  braved  full  many  a  winter's  storm; 

He  hears  again  the  song  his  mother  sung 

When  first  on  his  young  ear  those  accents  rung. 

And  still  more  near  he  dandles  on  his  knee, 

Heaven's  surest  pledge  of  earth's  felicity; 

Presses  the  form  close  to  his  beating  heart, 

While  from  his  lids  the  tears  unbidden  start, 

Of  her  to  whom  his  youthful  love  was  given, 

Who  bore  the  exile's  fervent  love  to  Heaven. 

Where  lurked  upon  that  leaf  the  secret  power 

That  thrilled  the  exile  in  that  dreary  hour  ? 

And  where  the  Lethean  spell  that  thus  should  hide 

Self  and  the  pressing  ills  that  self  betide  ? 


PHRENOCOSM. 


Ah,  look  within  and  there  the  enchanter  find, 
See  the  magician  in  the  exile's  mind. 


See  yonder  where  the  rapturous  speaker  stands, 
While  the  dense  crowd  his  every  look  attends; 
A  thousand  ears  catch  the  yet  nascent  word; 
A  thousand  hearts  re-echo  it  when  heard. 
He  speaks  of  home — a  thousand  fancies  start, 
And  scenes  far  distant  press  each  labored  heart 
As  bursts  the  lightning  on  the  eye  of  night, 
Quick  as  the  meteor  flashes  on  the  sight, 
A  thousand  cottages  by  magic  rise; 
A  thousand  homes  delight  the  listener's  eyes. 
Where  rise  the  bleak  New  England's  rugged  hills; 
Where  low  her  vales,  or  gush  her  mountain  rills; 
Where  surge  the  billows  and  the  hoarse  winds  roar; 
Where  war  the  wild  waves  with  the  rock-girt  shore; 
Or  on  the  prairies,  'neath  the  setting  sun, 
Young  nature's  play-ground  where  she  sportive  run; 
Or  'neath  the  sunny  sky  of  tropic  clime; 
Or  where  Arcturus  decks  his  field  with  rime; 


PHRENOCOSM. 

There  speed  the  thoughts  on  space-neglecting  wings, 
There  fancies  hies  and  untold  pleasure  brings. 

The  mind — who  shall  its  limits  dare  define  ? 
Who  fix  its  bounds,  and  who  its  cast  design  ? 
While  Newton  slumbered  on  his  mother's  breast, 
Without  a  thought,  in  semi-lifeless  rest, 
What  wizard  deep  within  that  infant  mind, 
Germ  of  Principia's  mighty  truths  could  find  ? 
Who  could  discern  the  power  that  e'en  should  draw 
From  nature's  self  her  hidden  wondrous  law, 
Which  from  the  distant,  wheeling  orbs  should  find 
The  laws  which  all  in  one  vast  system  bind  ? 

On  Corsica,  unknown  a  league  around, 
Unconscious  lay  the  hero  world-renowned; 
Sleep,  and  the  mother's  milk  his  sole  desire; 
Unthinking  then  where  lurked  the  secret  fire — 
Those  secret  passions  which  like  storms  should  break, 
Empires  and  kingdoms  to  their  centres  shake  ! 
Europa's  monarchs  felt  no  secret  fears; 
No  genii  whispered  warnings  in  their  ears. 
Why  do  they  now  as  suppliants  entreat 


PHRENOCOSM. 

And  prostrate  bend  before  his  haughty  feet  ? 

And  why  do  thousands  guard  Helena's  shore, 

When  Corsica  knew  not  his  natal  hour  ? 

The  latent  spark  has  kindled  to  a  blaze — 

The  germ  has  burst,  its  heaven-high  boughs  to  raise. 

The  infant  oak  lies  prisoned  in  its  cell 
A  mighty  tree  encrusted  by  a  shell. 
It  bursts  those  walls,  and  upward  seeks  the  sky; 
Spread  wide  its  arms,  whose  strength  the  storms  defy. 
But  while  it  seeks  heavenward  its  boughs  to  throw, 
The  slow  decay  brings  e'en  its  green  head  low  ; 
Now  crumbling  falls  the  monarch  of  the  wood  ; 
Time  lays  that  low,  which  tempests  long  withstood. 
Not  so  the  soul — though  grown  to  towering  height, 
Though  knowledge  sheds  around  a  halo  bright, — 
Though  science  has  her  storied  treasures  given, — 
That  soul  transplanted  to  the  fields  of  heaven 
Borne  still  aloft  by  heaven's  celestial  fire, 
Its  towering  wing  shall  mount  forever  higher 
Reflect  the  beauties  of  its  bright  abode, 
And  claim  its  kindred  with  its  maker — God. 


THE  PLANTING  OF  THE  APPLE-TREE. 


WM.  CULLEN    BBYANT. 


[When  this  poem  first  appeared  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  the 
stanza  in  italics  was  written  in  honor  of  an  unsung  virtue  of  the 
apple-tree.] 


COME,  let  us  plant  the  apple-tree. 
Cleave  the  tough  greensward  with  the  spade; 
Wide  let  its  hollow  bed  be  made; 
There  gently  lay  the  roots,  and  there 
Sift  the  dark  mould  with  kindly  care, 

And  press  it  o'er  them  tenderly, 
As,  round  the  sleeping  infant's  feet 
We  softly  fold  the  cradle-sheet; 

So  plant  we  the  apple-tree. 


PLANTING  OF  THE  APPLE-TREE. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ? 
Buds,  which  the  breath  of  summer  days 
Shall  lengthen  into  leafy  sprays; 
Boughs  where  the  thrush,  with  crimson  breast, 
Shall  haunt  and  sing  and  hide  her  nest; 

We  plant,  upon  the  sunny  lea, 
A  shadow  for  the  noontide  hour, 
A  shelter  from  the  summer  shower, 

When  we  plant  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ? 
Sweets  for  a  hundred  flowery  springs 
To  load  the  May-winds  restless  wings, 
When,  from  the  orchard  row,  he  pours 
Its  fragrance  through  our  open  doors; 

A  world  of  blossoms  for  the  bee, 
Flowers  for  the  sick  girl's  silent  room, 
For  the  glad  infant  sprigs  of  bloom, 

We  plant  with  the  apple-tree. 


PLANTING  OF  THE  APPLE-TREE. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree  ? 
Fruits  that  shall  swell  in  sunny  June, 
And  redden  in  the  August  noon, 
And  drop,  when  gentle  airs  come  by, 
That  fan  the  blue  September  sky, 

While  children  come,  with  cries  of  glee, 
And  seek  them  where  the  fragrant  grass 
Betrays  their  bed  to  those  who  pass, 

At  the  foot  of  the  apple-tree. 

What  plant  we  in  this  apple-tree? 
Wine,  which  its  hidden  -veins  shall  fill, 
In  golden  crucibles  distill, 
And  blushing  from  the  gen' rous  press, 
Like  maid  at  lover's  fond  caress, 

Shall  flash  to  Heaven  responsively 
Gleams  that  were  stolen  from  the  sky, 
When  Jove  prepared  for  feasts  on  high 

The  nectar  of  the  apple-tree. 


PLANTING  OF  THE  APPLE-TREE. 

And  when,  above  this  apple-tree, 
The  winter  stars  are  quivering  bright, 
And  winds  go  howling  through  the  night, 
Girls,  whose  young  eyes  o'erflow  with  mirth, 
Shall  peel  its  fruit  by  cottage  hearth, 

And  guests  in  prouder  homes  shall  see, 
Heaped  with  the  grape  of  Cintra's  vine 
And  golden  orange  of  the  line, 

The  fruit  of  the  apple-tree. 

The  fruitage  of  this  apple-tree 
Winds,  and  our  flag  of  stripe  and  star, 
Shall  bear  to  coasts  that  lie  afar, 
Where  men  shall  wonder  at  the  view 
And  ask  in  what  fair  groves  they  grew; 

And  sojourners  beyond  the  sea 
Shall  think  of  childhood's  careless  day 
And  long,  long  hours  of  summer  play, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree. 


PLANTING  OF  THE  APPLE-TREE. 

Each  year  shall  give  this  apple-tree 
A  broader  flush  of  roseate  bloom, 
A  deeper  maze  of  verdurous  gloom, 
And  loosen,  when  the  frost-clouds  lower, 
The  crisp  brown  leaves  in  thicker  shower. 

The  years  shall  come  and  pass,  but  we 
Shall  hear  no  longer,  where  we  lie, 
The  summer's  songs,  the  autumn's  sigh, 

In  the  boughs  of  the  apple-tree. 

And  time  shall  waste  this  apple-tree. 
Oh,  when  its  aged  branches  throw 
Thin  shadows  on  the  ground  below, 
Shall  fraud  and  force  and  iron  will 
Oppress  the  weak  and  helpless  still? 

What  shall  the  tasks  of  mercy  be, 
Amid  the  toils,  the  strifes,  the  tears 
Of  those  who  live  when  length  of  years 

Is  wasting  this  apple-tree  ? 


PLANTING  OF  THE  APPLE-TREE. 

"  Who  planted  this  old  apple-tree  ? " 
The  children  of  that  distant  day 
Thus  to  some  aged  man  shall  say  ; 
And,  gazing  on  its  mossy  stem, 
The  gray-haired  man  shall  answer  them  : 

"  A  poet  of  the  land  was  he, 
Born  in  the  rude  but  good  old  times  ; 
'Tis  said  he  made  some  quaint  old  rhymes 

On  planting  the  apple-tree." 


THE  CURRICULUM  OF  LIFE! 

[At  a  Summer  Resort,  it  chanced  that  on  August  ist,  1881,  five 
birthdays  of  inmates  of  the  house— aged  respectively  two,  four, 
sixteen,  fifty  and  sixty-seven — were  celebrated  by  a  Dinner  given 
by  other  guests. 

The  gentleman  aged  fifty,  being  called  upon  to  respond  on 
behalf  of  the  AUGUST  guests,  after  a  few  remarks,  read  the  following 
lines,  hurriedly  composed  by  him  for  the  occasion.] 

I. 

ROSY-FINGERED  Aurora, — the  old  poets  say, — 
Erst  opened,  at  dawning,  the  gates  of  the  day, 
And  Phoebus  led  out,  wild-champing  to  run, 
The  steeds  that  should  draw  forth  the  car  of  the  Sun; 
While  the  Hours,  all  attentive,  in  line  took  their  place, 
Obsequious,  to  mark  every  turn  in  the  race. 


THE  CURRICUL  UM  OF  LIFE. 

II. 

You  all  know  the  fable: — Now  labor  the  steeds, 
While  the  steeps  of  the  East  their  swift  runningimpedes. 
Now  open  broad  vistas,  entrancing  to  view, 
While  Phoebus  guides  safe  thro'  the  deep  vault  of  blue; 
Lo  !  rivers,  and  mountains,  and  oceans  unroll, 
Euphrates  a  thread,  and  Olympus  a  mole. 

III. 

THE  fleet-footed  coursers  sweep  on,  and  full  soon, 
The  chariot  is  poised  on  the  crest  of  high  noon; 
And  far  in  the  West,  lies  the  home  of  the  night, 
Whose  robes,  like  a  pall,  shall  extinguish  the  light. 
Apollo  himself  strives  in  vain  to  delay, 
The  chariot's  descent,  to  the  death  of  the  day  ! 

IV. 

How  the  dream  of  the  Poet  foreshadows  our  life  ! 
The  morning  how  arduous  !  how  earnest  the  strife  ! 
How  the  wheels  are  weighed  down  in  their  courses,before 
The  baby  of  TWO,  is  the  prattler  of  FOUR  ! 
While  the  vista  that  opens  to  eyes  of  SIXTEEN, 
Gives  the  mountains  its  blue,  the  river  its  sheen. 


THE  CURRICUL  UM  OF  LIFE. 

V. 

As  I  stand  at  the  nooning  of  manhood  to-day, 
Looking  forward  and  backward,  o'er  life's  rugged  way, 
Recalling  the  past,  with  its  visions  of  Love, 
And  piercing  the  future,  with  Hope  from  above; 
Let  furrows  of  care  from  this  brow  flee  away, 
Silver  hairs  turn  to  golden,  this  FIFTIETH  day  ! 

VI. 

LIKE  the  sun  when  majestic,  he  sinks  to  his  rest, 
And  gilds  with  his  rays  every  cloud  in  the  West, 
May  Faith,  as  a  gleam  from  the  portals  of  Heaven, 
Make  radiant  the  face  of  THREE-SCORE-AND-SEVEN. 
May  Youth,  Age  and  Manhood,  alike  come  to  rest 
In  the  morning  that  dawns,  in  the  realm  of  the  blest. 


DIES  IR>E. 

DIES  IR.E,  dies  ilia, 
Solvet  saeclum  in  favilla", 
Teste  David  cum  Sibylld. 

Day  of  wrath  ?  O  day  appalling; 
Melts  the  earth,  to  ashes  falling, 
Prophet's  words,  and  seer's  recalling. 

Quantus  tremor  est  futurus, 
Quando  judex  est  venturus, 
Cuncta  stricte  discussurus  ! 

Oh  !  what  terror  is  impending, 
See  the  mighty  Judge  descending, 
Laying  bare  each  fault  offending. 


DIES 

Tuba  mirum  spargens  sonum 
Per  sepulchra  regionum, 
Coget  omnes  ante  Thronum. 

Trumpet  wakes  the  slumb'ring  legions 
From  the  graves  of  all  the  regions, 
At  the  Throne  compels  allegiance. 

Mors  stupebit,  et  Natura, 

Cum  resurget  creatura, 

Judicanti  responsura. 
Dazed  is  death,  and  trembles  Nature, 
When  aghast — with  pallid  feature, — 
Stands  in  judgment,  every  creature. 

Liber  scriptus  proferetur, 
In  quo  totum  continetur. 
Unde  mundus  judicetur. 
Opened  are  the  written  pages 
Which  record  the  sins  of  ages. 
Thence  decreed  are  error's  wages. 


DIES 

Judex  ergo  cum  sedebit, 
Quidquid  latet  apparebit; 
Nil  inultum  remanebit. 
To  that  book  the  Judge  appealing, 
Every  hidden  thing  revealing; 
Nothing  are  we  now  concealing. 


Quid  sum,  miser,  tune  dicturus, 
Quern  patronum  rogaturus, 
Cum  vix  Justus  sit  securus  ? 
What  am  I, — the  wretched — saying  ? 
To  what  saint  or  angel  praying, 
When  on  just  ones  sins  are  weighing? 

Rex  tremendae  majestatis, 
Qui  salvandos  salvas  gratis 
Salva  me,  Fons  pietatis. 
King,  majestic  beyond  measure, 
Free  to  save  of  Thy  good  pleasure, 
Give  salvation  as  my  treasure. 


DIES 

Recordare,  Jesu  pie, 
Quod  sum  causa  Tuae  viae, 
Ne  me  perdas  ilia  die. 
Jesus,  hear  my  supplication, 
Since  I  caused  Thine  incarnation, 
On  that  day,  O  grant  salvation. 


Quaerens  me,  sedisti  lassus, 
Redemisti,  crucem  passus  ; 
Tantus  labor  non  sit  cassus. 

Seeking  me,  Thou  weary  liest ; 

To  redeem  me,  lo  !  Thou  diest ; 

In  thy  labor  fail  not,  Highest ! 

Juste  Judex  ultionis, 
Donum  fac  remissionis, 
Ante  diem  rationis. 
Judge  !  Thou  just  in  retribution, 
Make  the  gift  of  absolution 
Ere  the  day  of  execution. 


DIES 

Ingemisco  tanquam  reus, 
Culpa"  rubet  vultus  rneus, 
Supplicanti  parce,  Deus. 
Hear  me  groan,  in  anguish  crushing, 
Crimson  faced  from  guilty  blushing, 
Spare  me,  all  my  terror  hushing. 


Qui  Mariam  absolvisti, 
Et  latronem  exaudisti, 
Mihi  quoque  spem  dedisti. 
Thou  didst  pardon,  Mary,  needing  ; 
Thou  didst  heed  the  robber's  pleading, 
And  dost  give  me  hope  exceeding. 


Preces  meae  non  sunt  dignae, 
Sed  tu  bonus  fac  benigne, 
Ne  perenni  cremer  igne. 
All  unworthy  is  my  praying, 
Gracious  One  !  Thy  love  displaying, 
In  endless  fires  forbid  my  staying. 


DIES 

Inter  oves  locum  prsesta, 
Et  ab  haedis  me  sequestra. 
Stautens  in  parte  dextrd. 

Among  the  sheep,  O  Lord  !  instate  me; 

From  the  goats,  O  separate  me; 

With  the  blessed  grant  to  rate  me. 


Confutatis  maledictis, 
Flammis  acribus  addictis, 
Voca  me  cum  benedictis. 

When  the  damned  from  Thee  are  driven; 
And  to  sharpest  flames  are  given; 
Call  me  to  a  home  in  Heaven. 


Oro  supplex  et  acclinis, 
Cor  contritum,  quasi  cinis; 
Gere  curam  mei  finis. 
A  suppliant,  I  kneel,  imploring, 
Crushed  in  heart,  my  grief  outpouring, 
Bear  me  to  Thy  throne,  adoring. 


DIES 

Lacrymosa  dies  ilia, 

Qu£  resurget  ex  favilla 

Judicandus  homo  reus. 

Huic  ergo  parce,  Deus. 
Oh  !  that  dreadful  day  of  weeping^ 
When  man  rising  from  his  sleeping, 
For  the  Judgment  must  prepare  him; 
Spare  him,  Lord,  O  kindly  spare  him. 

Pie  Jesu  Domine, 

Dona  eis  requiem  sempiternam. 

Jesus,  Lord  !  in  love  Supernal, 
Give  to  him  Thy  rest  eternal. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-42m-8,'49(B5573)444 


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L  009  618  430  4 


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